


Semi-Permanent Mute

by Couldbeamidget



Series: The Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Asperger Syndrome, Child geniuses, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Euros as middle child, Euros is scary as hell, Gen, Ineffective parenting, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other, Psychosis, Stupid Teachers, Stupid psychiatrists, Switch in birth order, Uncle Rudy - Freeform, elective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: *TEMPORARILY on hiatus until I finish A Freudian Slip*My version of the Holmes Family and why Mycroft and Sherlock  and Euros are they way they are.





	1. Hush, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes not my creation and is the property of ACD and the BBC.
> 
> These chapters are very short as they are from Sherlock's perspective as a child. Saying this, if that kind of thing annoys you and yet you are still interested in pursuing the story (Thanks if you are!!!) then you might want to wait for me to post a few updates before checking in. Just sayin'.
> 
> In addition, I sort of created this series bass-ackwards. The three separate stories are told from each Holmes sibling's personal perspective. As such, the series will make more sense if the reader reads story updates of all three stories at the same time. I didn't want to be repetitive, so one sibling might narrate the entirety of an event whilst the other two siblings mention it in passing or make comments. Does that make sense? I hope that it does. Maybe I should have combined the three parts into one story - I don't know. Hopefully my strategy doesn't confuse you all. If it does, constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes.es is not my creation. He belongs to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Hush, little baby, don't say a word..." - nursery rhyme, origin unknown

    His eyes are the color of sea glass. Euros knows this, because Mummy takes her for walks on the seaside. Funny, that, because this little  _thing_ called William has less intelligence than the jellies that wash up on the shore. Daddy says "Watch out for those, love, they'll sting you!" Euros pokes one with a finger when Daddy's not looking. He's looking at fat, stupid Mycroft - never her.

    Touching it doesn't hurt her at all. She doesn't understand what pain is supposed to feel like.

    William can feel pain, though; he understands. Euros sees this after squeezing his right baby toe. He squalls, red-faced and sobbing. Mummy comes running. Daddy's at work. Mycroft simply gives her the  _look._

     He doesn't tell, but she knows that he saw. Mycroft knows everything.

     Infants are decidedly stupid. 


	2. Shut Up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish I was clever enough to write like Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Tragically, I am not. Sorry for the disparity. Anyway, this is what my feeble little mind thinks about when I imagine Sherlock's childhood. Yep. I forgot to put the disclaimer in the first chapter. AHDH, remember?
> 
> Sherlock, age 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shut up! Everybody shut up. Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think." - Sherlock Holmes, BBC1 Moffat/Gatiss

    It is too...damn... loud in this house. Mummy is loud. Daddy is worse; he hums all the time. Mycroft _never_ shuts up, and nobody listens to Euros. The noise hurts my ears. The words worm through my ears and burrow into my head like...what are those small, squirmy things; oh yes, bot flies. Dermatobia hominis. Nasty little buggers. I saw their picture in a book in the library.

   I do like the sound of the sea, though.   Shushhh _....shushhh...hushhh..._ The sea thinks exactly as I do. Hush up, because the light, and the wind, and the bang of the dishes make too much clatter as it is. And, forget about the endless chatter of people. They make noise and use words; but not much they say makes much sense. 

   Occasionally, Mycroft does shut up. He stops making noise and starts  _speaking._ He listens, too. He's good at finding out secrets, even mine.

   My brother's eyes aren't as light as my own. They shine like the sky filled with sun. When his mouth closes shut, his ears open up. I think that I am the only person here that truly understands how much Mycroft says when his mouth isn't moving at all. His eyes shine bright when they look upon me. I like them; I like him. He hears when I speak with my mouth shut.

   Euros listens, she hears. She knows all the secrets the world tries to hide. Her eyes are the color of dirt. I'm frightened of them; I'm frightened of her.

   And Daddy just keeps on with his humming.


	3. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft figures it out.

   I like to sit in the library. Musgrave is a big old house. I find little spaces in which I can wedge into. Sometimes I just want to hide. Sometimes she finds me. Sometimes I get lucky and she doesn't. 

   Today, my sister went with Mummy to town. I have the house to myself. Daddy is in the garden. We both pretend that he went out to do th weeding; but he sneaks into the shed for a smoke. 

   I hear Mycroft puttering around in the pantry. He likes to eat whenever no-one is watching. I like to be private when I read the books. We have a silent agreement to leave each other alone and not tell.

    Euros makes no such promises, but our parents never hear what she really means when she talks. So, that doesn't matter.

    Mummy is brilliant. Daddy brags about her to the neighbors and makes Mummy blush. She prefers to hide her intelligence the same way we hide our true selves. It is easier when nobody sees.

   I find words to be tedious. The words that I know don't say what I want. I don't waste my time on useless activities, and so I don't talk.

    I have been filing the books alphabetically. Mummy thinks Mycroft's done it, which he doesn't deny. I know that he knows I can read. He is quiet when I need him to be. That's important. We need to keep each other safe from...the other.

    I try not to think about it.

    Honey bees. I'm reading this book about honey bees. The garden is full of rows and rows and rows of lilacs. During the summer, they buzz there so loud it's even hard to think. I like to press myself small into the underbrush and listen

    Sometimes the bees even land on me, even though I have no nectar to give. They're gentle as they crawl along my arms, and legs, and sometimes even my cheek. I'm never stung, because they know I won't hurt them. The bees are my only friends.

    Mummy's forbidden Euros from entering that part of the garden. She provokes the bees, you see. They sting her. She laughs when they die. Mummy sees the welts on my sister's arms and clucks like a hen. My mother feels sorry for Euros and wants to protect her only daughter.

    Mummy's never understood who really needs to be saved. I hope I grow taller soon. I'm too small to protect anything or anyone. I can't even protect myself.

    The book on honey bees is quite accurate. I'm good with anatomy. I pick up dead bees after Euros has been at them, and dissect the abdomens, thorax, and heads with tweezers. I tell them I am sorry first, though. I thank them for helping me learn. I'm trying to discover the mechanism they use to speak without talking, but I haven't discovered it yet.

    The book says that bees talk with their bodies. They crawl in figure eights, shaking their bodies and buzzing. I sit still and focus, but I can't parse through the language. Most of their communication is conducted in the hive anyway.

   I'd never disturb their home to watch. I try never to destroy things I love. That happens enough in our family already.


	4. Lapse into Lexicon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's intervention gives Sherlock a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow." -Oliver Wendall Holmes
> 
> "I am always doing what I cannot do yet in order to learn how to do it." Vincent Van Gogh

    I am more honey bee than human, I think. I am all right with this, in fact, it suits me just fine. I understand what people are thinking by how they behave; I watch the motions of muscles and listen to sounds that they make. Words just get in the way of what people are saying. I usually don't bother with listening to speech. 

   I now come every day to the lilac grove and nestle down in the soft, slender grass. The bees recognize me now. That makes me very happy. They always fly closer and buzz in loops around my head. I make of myself a perch for their rest.

   I bring my dented silver flask after stopping by the well for fresh water. Mycroft told me that metal flasks like this are designed to hold liquor. I wrinkled my nose when he said so. _Liquor_  is the horrid, brown drink Uncle Rudy so favours - I know that it's truly a poison. I know this without even tasting, by how it slows down his body's function and alters the speed of his speech.

   Uncle Rudy calls alcohol  _spirits._ Giving it a fancy name doesn't change what it is, which is smelly.

   I found the flask last Christmas between the legs of the couch. I found it, and washed it, and now it is mine. My brother says that unlike this one, most flasks are made out of cheaper metals such as aluminium. I'm keeping it, solid silver or no. If Uncle Rudy really wanted it, he wouldn't have kicked it under there in the first place.

  Every day, I pour a tiny bit of the water into my cupped palm. When bees get thirsty, I offer them a wee drink of water. It smells very like Mummy's copper pots, and the taste is quite dreadful. The bees crawl on my hand and sip at it anyway whilst they wave their antennae. They must get frightfully thirsty in the heat and I am happy to help.

  The honey bees I usually observe are called _worker bees_ , or _drones_. Drone fly in and out of the hive to collect nectar and make honey from sunrise to sunset. Their legs tickle my fingers...I find it lovely.

  They don't hurt people unless they have to.

 

   ***********

   When I think hard I see colors.

  _White_ is the color of fear. Blazing, bright white; a color so light I can't see. _White_  is staring directly at the sun 'til it hurts and I'm blind. White is frozen-stiff snow.

  Mummy says she feels  _dangerous_ when she wears her scarlet red frock. Daddy wolf-whistles and pinches her bum. "Charles!" Mummy giggles but tries to be stern. "Not in front of the children!"

   I like  _Red_ , but not because of any dumb frock. I like red because it is strong and so fierce. Red is the color of blood and my heart, beating strong. _Red_ is the color I see when I stare at the sun with my eyes shut. Red is what happens when fear goes away.

   _Yellow_ is the color of sick. It is DO NOT PASS, CAUTION, and crushed robin's eggs. Yellow has infested the sclera of Mr. Bell's eyes, completely surrounding the blue. Mr. Bell used to deliver our milk, but his son does that now. 

  My eyes are a faded-out... pale, a barely-there green. I have no opinion on _Green._

   _Black_ is the color of comfort. I can wrap up in black and then hide. No one finds me in the dark. Mummy bought me black wellies last winter. I use them each day, even if it's too hot.

  Happiness is the color  _Blue._ Not the foppish blue of blankets you find in a pram, but a deep blue - a sky blue. The blue of the ocean, where whales swim so deep. _Blue_ is the blue of my big brother's eyes.

  Then, there is  _Purple_ and  _Pink_ ,  _Salmon_ and  _Peach_. _Fuschia,_   _Lilac_ and  _Orange._  And then,  _Aqua,_   _Indigo, lavender_  and _..._ Crikey. I could go on and on. These are the colors of flowers.  _White lilies_ remind me of funerals.

   

   ***********

      I found something else today. Instead of being under the couch, though, the something was under my bed. Mycroft's Merriam-Webster Dictionary.

    My brother told me after Mummy brought it home from the book store that it has roughly 470,000 _entries_. Mycroft says that in this case, _entries_  refer to definitions of individual words. He knows the number of _entries_  because he counted each one. Mycroft is very smart, and so I believe him.

    I didn't touch it at first. I spied a triangle of heavy red cardboard pushing up from under the dust ruffle. I crouched down by the door to see what it was. I just never know what I'll find. I listened hard for any noise, but the hallway stood silent and still. I couldn't find any clues for why someone would have placed it there. Was this a joke, and if so, what kind? Not all jokes are meant to be funny. I didn't know what this, but I had to find out. 

   Then I knew.

   The Merriam-Webster. Now that I recognized what it was, I did a  _re-con._  The first time I heard that word was when I hid under the sideboard. I like listening to Uncle Rudy and Mycroft speak in hushed voices about  _duty-to-queen-and-country,_ and   _MI5,_ and _government._ I'm not sure they knew I was there. I am very quiet when I want to be.

   Eventually, I went and dragged it over to the rug. I came up with seven different theories about why it was in my room, and three more about why it would be hidden under my bed. I only had two theories about who would have done so.

   Mycroft hasn't said anything about his dictionary being stolen, or lost, or misplaced in the nine days since I have received it. I've decided that it was a present, and am pleased to find that theory #4, #9, and #11 were correct. 

   It has been a challenge to divide my days between bees and this book. I've accepted this gift from my brother, and view it as a challenge. I wait until my parents are asleep to pull it out from under my wardrobe to study. I learn sixty new words every day. At some point I will have to speed up this rate, or else it will take me seven thousand, eight hundred and thirty-three days to memorize. I won't finish with the letter z until I am twenty-four years old. This is simply illogical.

   To speed up my rate of learning, I've done a study of the number of words people use that start with "A", and with "B", and so on. Once I complete my observations and make a list, I will focus on memorizing the entries of the words with the most commonly used first letters. 

   As of yet, I find that nobody uses the letter  _X_  unless they go to hospital with a broken arm.  _Q_  is also uncommon, but I am in favor of words starting with  _Q._

    _Quiet. Queer. Quixotic._ __These are words that I like.

   In the meantime, I flip through the pages with my eyes closed until I decide on a page. I always make sure to write the page number down before I begin. Sometimes, I like to flip through the pages to look for words with specific meanings. Today I am researching how many words define the definition of "stupid".

   These are my favourites so far:

      _asinine, brainless, daft, doltish, dull, gormless, idiotic, inane, moronic, obtuse, simple, thick,_  and _vacuous._

 I practice pronouncing the words in the dark, but have decided that if I said anything out loud then people would expect me to talk. Conversations are to _dull_ for me to bother. 

   


	5. Precocity, Perspicacity, Perception, and Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's world explodes with life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music." -Albert Einstein
> 
>  
> 
> "Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing." - Robert Benchley

    I was scolded this morning for kicking a ball in the dirt; but not because of the act in itself. Rather, the scolding commenced because I did so during a period of intense _precipitation._ It _sluiced_ down my face in a _torrent._  

   Anyway. I find I quite fancy the Merriam-Webster. I've accrued an additional vocabulary of three thousand, six hundred and twenty-two words, yet not one has passed from my lips. I mouth them at night into my pillow.

   I've completed my experiment. Mycroft would be proud if he knew. After an extensive period of observation, incorporating the  _scientific method,_ obviously; I'v _e_  ordered first letter frequency as follows: etaoinsrhldcumfpgwybvkxjqz. I'm pleased to note that  _s_ is more frequent than  _m._ The letter  _e_ is first on the list. This does not surprise me.

   Mummy inquired as to why I let myself get so muddy. She asks me questions every day. I find them _multifarious, multitudinous,_ and _mundane._ In addition, she keeps a running commentary of my actions, or lack thereof. I don't understand why she bothers. Asking me questions is _futile._ I never answer back, except for a shake of my head or a nod. If I am feeling particularly _loquacious,_  I might throw in a shrug of my shoulders. Mycroft says that I am rude by not responding. Mummy says I will speak when I'm ready. 

   I don't know if I will ever be ready.

   My brain is so full of ideas I can't stand it. So much noise, I can't even sleep for the _tumult._  Strange, twisted dreams push me awake, when I do. Sometimes, the ideas come out in colors, or numbers, or three-dimentional shapes. Sometimes they express themselves in sound. Sometimes, the sounds stream through me like music. Sometimes, they shriek in the night.

    I find myself viewing the world by its numbers. Forty-five feet to the stairwell. Twenty seconds to climb twenty-two steps, but only twelve if I hurry. Two plasters to protect me after skinning my knee.  "William," Daddy says, "that scrape is a two-plaster problem." He laughs so loud it hurts my ears, but I smile back all the same. "Fortunately, I have the solution!" Daddy says. His voice is always so _boisterous_. He shakes the plastic white box where Mummy stores our first aid supplies. It makes a  _chukka-chukka-chukka_  sound, which I like.

     And words. Always, the words. So many, too many words. Words in my mind. Words in the air. Words, smeared in porridge, and mist, and ash from the fire. Words clog the corners of my mouth, blocking food. Words. Words spill from my ears and well up, wet in my tears. Words poking one toe like a rock in my shoe.

    Too. Many. Words.

    _Sensory Integration Disorder,_  says the doctor. Pish posh, says Mummy.

    My senses function on a different scale than most others, except for Mycroft, Euros, and I. I do not possess _Extrasensory Perception,_ as Daddy says I do. Mummy says "Little pitchers have big ears". This statement makes no sense. Pitchers have handles and spouts.

  I see what people are. The lies they tell make my head ache. When this happens, I hide with the bees. Their oscillating wings echo in a sensible pattern...mathematical. Predictable. Beautiful. 

    People are just plain stupid.

 

 


	6. Misgivings, Foreboding, and Funk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euros makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never  
> really communicate anything to anybody. The essential substance of every feeling and thought remains incommunicable,

  "I know what you are thinking," my sister whispers from behind the garden gate. "It's so easy to read you, little brother. Do you know why? It's because you are incredibly stupid."

   She stands on her toes and stares at me. Her eyes are not friendly. They're flat and don't reflect light, they _consume_ it. They don't ever shine like Daddy's do, although they are close to the same color. The color is  _hazel._

   Daddy says that Mummy puts the twinkle in his eye. However, I find his assertion to be slightly inaccurate, as I have observed on multiple occasions that both of his eyes twinkle simultaneously whilst in Mummy's presence.

    Mycroft also tells me that I am stupid, but usually only whilst spotting him stealing biscuits from the cupboard. I understand why. Mycroft is  _mortified_ by his weight. He is fat, but I don't think that this has anything to do with anything. He disagrees, but only with his eyes. He is ashamed.

   I have evaluated both statements for their veracity _._

   Am I stupid? I think not. 

   I am smart. I am smart. I am smart.

   Euros doesn't see my _intellectual acumen_  because she only sees what she believes in. Euros believes only in herself. When I was little, my sister told me that I was a figment of her imagination. She warned me that if I told about her she would wipe me from reality. She'd snap her fingers and _*poof*_ I would shrink into nothing. Not even dust would be left after she was done. Euros said she'd  _delete_ me.

   My parents believe that I am relatively _normal._ This is a privately held view. They're gentle and kind and generous in coping with my  _eccentricities._

These are terms our has spoken in a very quiet voice referencing my _condition._

They are listed as follows:

      _Autistic, Asberger's, developmental delay, selective mutism, sub-normal intelligence, social anxiety, poor language proficiency, and abnormal._

     Finally, when Dr. Davies suggested the possibility of my being a  _sociopath,_  Mummy yelled in his face. She said these words exactly - I have tucked them into a corner of my mind to hold onto when sad, so I can  _verify_ my statement.

    They are as follows:

   "You arse, speaking this way in front of my child. Or do you think he's deaf as well? Let me say right now, you'd make a shite psychiatrist! What kind of moronic diagnosis is are you trying to slap on my son?

    Absolutely ridiculous, I am sure. This is the second time you've said this about one of my children, and I absolutely reject your idiotic opinions. Did you get your degree from a catalogue?

   Listen, you mental midget, if you document any of this puerile claptrap I will report you to the authorities! In addition, your breath smells like cock!"

    I don't know what that last part meant. Maybe he'd had chicken for lunch?

    She slapped his face, then. I love my mum.

    At dinner, my parents had a row. Their voices hurt my ears. I ran away to my bees. I am sorry that I shattered the tea cup.

     

 


	7. Symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives another significant gift.

_jubilant, ecstatic, engrossed, rapt, transported_

 Two days after Mummy's spectacular row with the  _psychiatrist_ , they gave me a violin. It is the most beautiful object I have been privy to hold in my life. And the sounds that it makes...squeaky,  _sonorous, resonant, dissonant,_ and lyrical. It is a wondrous device.

  I almost returned Mycroft's dictionary. The violin speaks for me so much more effectively that the spoken word ever could. Although, Mycroft's been sneaking me his French study books on the sly...I do believe French to be a far superior language to English. Great Grandmother would agree, if she could.

  She died thirty-four days ago, on a Tuesday. Daddy told me that she passed away in her sleep. From this, I realized that the time of death is not known. Therefore, I believe that she may had died the day prior, late Monday night. I wish I knew how to find out. I do not know why, but this detail seems very important.

   I miss hearing her voice.

   *********

   Depending on where you grow up, people's diction either beautifies our lexicon or gives one the impression of chewing on rocks. _Regional accents_ are bollocks. On the other hand, people's usage of colloquial phrases and _slang_  is very telling. It's just one more _tell_  of what they are about. Mycroft once told me that I could figure out anything I wanted to about a person by just paying very close attention to what they do, rather than what they say. He says I can find out their secrets.

   Fascinating.

  "Body language, little brother, speaks volumes _,_ " he told me, at 9:14 a.m. on a Thursday. I need to get a yearly calendar, so I can keep track of the date. Also, a watch with both minute and second hands.

   *********

  In my opinion, music and maths are the only _verifiable_  languages on Earth. I am satisfied to say that I am developing fluency in both. 

   My violin instructor is Mr. Séamus Murray. He tells me stories about his time in the army He signed up for the Defence Forces of Ireland in 1938, where he he served as a leifteanant in the Póilíní Airm (PA), or military police division in Cork. He tells me that Ireland didn't fight in World War II because it was  _neutral_ , but he got into plenty of scrapes anyway. 

   "Most of us lads were true," he laughs, "but once in a while, a bad egg would show up with an ill set mind. That's when they called in us First Brigade PA's to bust in some skulls."

    He says, it's fine to get into a fight, but to always protect my hands. A broken nose is nothing compared to the pain of a busted up hand or broken finger. I understand what he means. A face is a face. _Window dressing._   But, to lose the ability to make music...

  "Boyo, knock heads if you must, but keep your distance from hand-to-hand combat. Best to spar with you words...ehhh...once you find them. Words are wicked sharp, if you use them correctly."

  He is very kind about my refusal to speak, and in fact, may have given me my first real incentive for severing  my oral _embargo._   I will have to give this suggestion some thought.

  In addition, I know now I must always protect my hands; they're my best method of nonverbal speech.

  

    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Army#Medical_Corps


	8. Symbiosis Squared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A violin sets Sherlock's world shooting out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Family is supposed to be our safe haven. Very often, it's the place where we find the deepest heartache." - Iyanla Vanzant

   The most frightening aspect of Euros is that she is sneaky _(malicious, duplicitous, stealthy,_ and  ** _yellow_** ). She watches me with dead eyes, opaque and _occluded._ She skitters in my shadow like a permanent nightmare. I must stay awake, unceasingly vigilant.

   Mycroft and I have become  _comrades in arms, symbiotic._ We're trapped in an invisible war of my sister's devising. A secret war, covert action. Euros is a genius of subterfuge.

   **********

   Lt. Murray tells the most wonderful tales about his time in service between musical instruction and teatime. Mummy forces him to eat egg mayonnaise sandwiches, followed by cheese scones slathered in butter.

   Despite all of his protests, I know that he appreciates her hospitality and kindness. Even she can see how sad he is, no matter how much he pretends. He's very good at pretending.

   Mummy sees some secrets, private things, as she's intellectually gifted. She purposefully ignores the most important secret, though. It might be our family's undoing.

   I don't believe it's her fault. Mummy only likes to see the good things in people. Mummy is sweet, and I love her. If she saw the truth, she might change. That would be  _incontionable._

   Lt. Murray's wife died two years ago from the _ailse*._  They were married for 44 years.

   He downs his tea with a dollop of milk, and is partial to Twining's, any kind. He doesn't really prefer butter on cheese scones.

   ***********

    My brother secretly shares things with me. Today, Euros took possession of my precious violin and threatened to smash into splinters. She wielded it above her head like a sword. I had time to wonder if she was planning on smashing it into splinters by smacking it over my head - killing two birds with one stone.   

   "Speak, little brother. Tell me how much it would hurt you to lose it. Tell me.  _Tell me_   _with your words..._ I can only imagine how impressive your vocabulary is by now thanks to  _Myc._ "

    I want to, I do. My mouth gapes open, and I must look like one of the kittens Euros strangled last week behind the shed. I am frozen in place. I cannot run, I cannot speak. I think she has stolen my breath.

    "Why did Mummy give it to _you?"_ She whispers, a snake in the grass. "Nobody thinks about  _Euros,_ crazy  _Euros._ Use your stupid, vapid, ugly mouth to tell Mummy that I want one, too. Tell her I should have lessons, like you. Tell her that it will help me get better, _be normal._  Tell her, you little infinitesimal toad, or she'll end up picking splinters out of your sweet, chubby cheeks," she grunts. "I'm going to destroy you, little brother, sooner or later. Shall I destroy you today?"

    Euros makes a sound, then. I can't tell whether she is laughing or screaming.

    She gathers momentum and swings at me. I can't help it. I am a baby and a coward - I close my eyes with my hands. I don't care if she hurts me, but my treasure... I hide away in my mind.

   Nothing happens. The air is quiet - even the wind has stopped whistling. I open my eyes to see my instrument, carelessly shoved within the verge. She'd desecrated the strings with her spit. I clean them with my shirt and a few drops of well water. I don't bother getting angry. 

   When Mycroft comes home, he sees something's happened from my face. He tells our father that we are going for a walk on the beach, and gently takes my hand. Daddy tut-tuts from behind his newspaper, settled into his chair with a cuppa. He reminds us to be back before dinner. Mycroft and I put on wellies before leaving...it's low tide.

    We walk for a long time. He doesn't ask questions. Mycroft is considerate that way. After reaching the edge of the sand which had been one covered by sea, Myc stops walking. He watches the seabirds with his hands in his pockets, facing the other way. I flop down on my knees, legs tired.

   I am desperate to communicate Euros' message. Sticking a finger into the soggy sand, I draw circles and squiggles and think. 

   Suddenly, Mycroft gasps and crouches down by my side. I flinch, thinking something bad is coming to harm us. I wait, head down, like a rabbit. Nothing bad happens, so eventually I turn my head to study his face.

  I am even more worried. Mycroft's eyes are burning, and his face has gone pasty. Nothing, no, nothing ever passes his mask. Mycroft's always in control.

   Wait.

   Now I see. He is happy, not frightened, and ignores me to stare at the sand full of wonder. 

   I follow his gaze, startled. Hidden among the marks where my finger has dallied, I see that someone has carved out four letters in a row. Four letter when combined, make a word. The sand was untouched before I'd disturbed it. That someone must have been me.

   That word I have written is H-E-L-P.

   My finger starts moving. More words appear and make sentences...a story, if you like. A recounting of what Euros wants and what she has threatened. Mycroft nods, and tells me it's all taken care of. His face isn't so happy anymore. 

  Holds my hand the entire way back, lost in thought. I think I just might love him most of all, even more than my precious violin.

   It's scratched now, you know - from the verge. Nothing ever escapes from my sister.

    **********

    Six days and fourteen hours after talking with my finger, Mummy gives me a bright green umbrella with a burled wood handle. She says that she is tired of me coming into the house soaking wet, and dripping all over the carpets

    I give it to Mycroft. It is the only thing of mine to give that he can use.

    I can tell that he likes it. That's good. Very good. He spins it in the air when he thinks no one is looking.

   Lt. Murray is frightened of Euros.

     

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.bitesize.irish/inirish/1945*


	9. The Noise of My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Music is the only medicine when there's no cure for the noise my mind drowns in." - Michelle Schaper
> 
> "Out of control emotions make smart people stupid." - Daniel Goleman

   I clean the fingerboard three more times before I feel it is clean. My beautiful, miraculous, precious violin. I love it more than most anything. Lt. Murray is teaching me the basics of violin maintenance. I've re-strung two of the strings. He demonstrated how to apply the proper amount of peg compound ( formulated from the dermestidae family of beetles... Fascinating). 

   The violin is my saving grace, and my voice, and my  _surcease_ from sentiment. I believe I'd go mad without my music. My thoughts are deafening sometimes.

   My older brother has been very generous as of late. I am curious to know if it is because I finally communicated with him using English, or my gift of the umbrella. He does love it so, and it makes my heart sing. Almost every night, I receive a new tome in French or textbooks of maths and biology.

      I read the works of:

      John Stuart Mill: "Truth gains more even by the errors of one who, with due study and preparation, thinks for himself, than by the true opinions of those who only hold them because they do not suffer themselves to think."

      Sir Francis Bacon: (ha, named after breakfast fare, most amusing) "The divisions of science are not like different lines that meet in one angle, but rather like the branches of trees that join in one trunk."  _Obviously, Mr. Pork Belly_

 _also:_ "Read not to contradict or confute; nor to believe and take for granted; now to talk and discourse, but to weight and consider.  _I had to look up confute and discourse, incidentally._

François-Marie Arouet (nom de plume  _Voltaire ): _“To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.”

      _also:_ "Governments need to have both shepherds and butchers."  _I know which faction Uncle Rudy belongs to._

 _also:_ "A witty saying proves nothing."  _True, but I enjoy them irregardless._       

 

      De Carte: "Cogito ergo sum." (I think; therefore I am.)  _I put in the addendum that "I doubt, therefore I think." Thinking just isn't enough for my taste. I need to examine, to study, to experiment with things in order to understand their truths._

    **********

    My parents and I take a trip into Hull. It is a beautiful city, both in architecture and the level of intelligence. The best thing about it was, well there are two very good things.

    One: Euros and Mycroft stayed back home with Uncle Rudy.

    Two: I don't break any more tea cups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about the tea cups at the end is explained in "The Shattering of One's Mind", the companion piece to this that is written through Mycroft's perspective.


	10. Probity, Equity, Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's private thoughts as he starts questioning the world and the people who have control over his life. Also, Christmas at Musgrave, just before Sherlock's fifth birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...I consider ethics to be an exclusively human concern..." - Albert Einstein
> 
> "The ideals which have always shone before me and filled me with the joy of living are goodness, beauty, and truth." - Albert Einstein

  I understand the scientific theory for why our planet experiences seasons. Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn - four simple  _appellations_  that help its inhabitants mark the variations in sunlight and temperature.

Fact: the earth orbits around our sun. In turn, our solar system rotates within the confines of our galaxy.

Fact: the obliquity of the ecliptic (axial tilt measuring at precisely 23.4°) is the causative factor regarding the amount of ultraviolet light any one particular geographic location receives at a specific point in time. It is through the combined variables of axial tilt and orbital position in reference to the sun that we experience seasonal variations in temperature at all. 

  That's what Mycroft said, anyway.

  Theories and facts, the only two things that lead me to truth. 

  ****************

  Things are different since I wrote words in the sand. One word. One simple word was all it took for Mycroft to see me as more than a sprog. Sometimes, I wish that I'd displayed my intelligence sooner. I feared that Mycroft would see me as peculiar for being smart, yet not talking. Well - even more peculiar than he already did. My brother has never openly said (to my face) that I'm odd, but he thinks it. It shows in his eyes. I find this awfully humiliating. When I observe it I have to look away. 

  I am burdened with a ridiculous number of deficiencies, considering that I am so young. I find this very unfair. Consider this fact: If I wasn't such a baby about talking I could have saved a few kittens from strangulation.

  Mummy and Daddy took me all the way to Hull Uni. G _ood_  doctors, nice doctors. They offered me puzzles to solve and stories to read. They let me do maths and work formulas in chemistry (which was spectacular fun, by the way) and read French and work riddles in German. I've never had so much fun in my life. 

  My brain is not broken, yet I cannot break the barrier to speech. Maybe, I'm in a tizz knowing the things I would say. Honesty is golden. I choose silence over flagrant deceit. 

  *******************

  On the subject of deceit:

  I have no clue as to why Mycroft kept my intellectual abilities. He gave me his books on the sly, despite my parents' concerns. I know maths. I read French. And yet, not a peep from his mouth.

  Perhaps I'm a bad influence.

  Mycroft is being a prat. My brother ignores me when his motives are questioned, no matter how many times I flap paper in his face. Or, stomp my feet. Or smack the table with pencils to the beat of La campanella - in double time. 

  He kept mute (ha-very-ha). Was it for my sake, and why? What particular aspect of my reticence was he protecting? 

  Why? Why why why why why?  _Why?_ I need to understand.

  Mycroft is my brother, and as such I presume that he loves me. I can't presume that he's also a mate. I didn't have the vocabulary, so I spent 12.4 minutes to locate the words for formulating my thoughts.

  Mycroft has  _custodianship_  of my person. He's shelter in the face of peril, and of...situations beyond my control. This knowledge begs the question -do my parents represent some unseen danger that I am too stupid to deduce? Or does the threat come from an entirely different direction? I can't tell. It's too  _nebulous._

  Mycroft. My big brother. My minder, not mate?

  It's good, but not good. It's - Mycroft confuses me. He stares at me as if I am a tricky calculation in maths that he's keen on solving. I'm his riddle, a sine qua non to be managed. Cracked like an egg, then contained. The very notion makes my body feel squirmy. 

  Myc's a clever boy but so dodgy. He takes after fat Uncle Rudy, and now they conspire together. If Mycroft is my mentor, Uncle Rudy is Mycroft's. I only hope that Mycroft stays away from Rudy's wardrobe. He could break an ankle in those heels.

  *************

  My parents are in the middle of a very quiet row in the kitchen. Half two in the morning, 6.28 cm of snow on the ground. Uncle Rudy is a  _manipulative bastard_  and shouldn't be allowed in our house - especially during  _Christmas!_

  Father: "Rudy has the prime minister by the bollocks - and don't you think for a minute that I can't see that he fancies control of fecking British government! Bloody autocrat, that one." Mummy blows air from her nose.

  "It is what it is, I can't change that. But I _will not stand_ for that narcissistic arse coming into _our_ home and mouthing off about the...the...the children! You  _know_  exactly what I'm talking about, don't roll those beautiful eyes at me, it won't work."

   I didn't want to hear anymore. I plugged my ears with my fingers and went back up to my bed. The black of the sky is bright white.

   Too many stars in the sky. Too many words in my head.

   It was a waste of time to cover my ears. The turmoil in my mind becomes deafening.

  ***********

   Big brother helped Mummy buy me paper, new pencils, and a box full of pointy grey rubbers for Christmas. I think. Euros says that Father Christmas is "a myth perpetuated by grown-ups in order to manipulate children into behaving themselves". I will give this notion some thought.

  Mycroft and I almost fell off my bed giggling after pointing out the words on the box: "RUBBERS - ONE GROSS". Gross is a word representing a number, like a  _dozen_ or a  _score_ _._  A gross equals 144 of an item. We both find the term terribly silly...and indecent, obscene, vulgar, indelicate, lacking in refinement, and unrefined. 

  Myc proudly proclaimed (whilst eating breakfast, the git) that we'd procured one-twelfth of a gross of eggs. Father flashed a faintly worried smile at Mummy, not understanding the joke. Merrily (it is Christmas, ha) she patted his arm and said that the eggs were perfectly fine. She tried very hard not to smirk, but we caught her expression and snickered into our hands. Euros observed without comment, looking at us like we were all loons. 

  It's not his fault that father's an idiot - he has sub-standard genes. 

  At least that's what Mycroft told me. I fancy my father's friendly simplicity, so...I choose to turn a blind eye. I'm thinking about how I can _stop_ thinking unpleasant facts - things I want to forget. Other things, like the kittens...I have to. It's important, if terrifying, to remember.

  Is there a way to erase things away like graphite on paper? Sometimes I imagine taking one gross of rubbers and erasing the thoughts in my head. If I ever figure out how to forget about bad things, Mycroft's opinions about our father will be the first memory to go.

   Mummy bought me Sterling silver Cicelé and Vermeil Cicelé; gold plated sterling silver. The clip had a newly designed Parker Arrow clip, with the longitudinal arrow an integral part of the bottom of the ”feathers”, like an elongated Y. I can't erase words written in ink.

  *************     

   Mycroft sometimes upholds the philosophy of equity, when he wants to. If he doesn't know what I want to know as far as schooling goes, he admits it. If I am lucky, he'll bother himself to find the answer. He's thoughtful that way, my big brother. He brings home books from the library to further my education. I am so utterly chuffed with each new book, abstract, or diagram that I jump up and down on the bed. 

   Secretly, I'm of the opinion that complete honesty can be as lethal as any old gun. I suppose it depends on the target. 

 

  **********

  Uncle Rudy and Mycroft are pushing my parents to purchase an electronic devise called a PC - a  _personal computer._  The BM Model 5150 has a 4.77 MHz Intel 8088 microprocessor and runs on Microsoft´s MS-DOS operating system. I have absolutely no idea what any of this means - which is brilliant! I have so much more learning to do.

   Uncle Rudy talks on and on and on about floppy disks, little flat circles that look like records but  _flop_ if you shake them!

   What is a  _hard drive_?

Mummy and Daddy know that I can read, that I am smart. But they don't try to force me to speak or even to write to them because the doctors have told them not to. It's good, that. My parents have stopped worrying so much since they've received proof of my abilities.   

  I'm not defective. I'm not stupid. I'm also not normal, but who cares? Mycroft says normal is boring. Privately, he thinks I am odd.

 I don't have to get poked and prodded by doctors anymore, which in and of itself is very good. When people's hands touch me my skin burns and itches and I go crazy inside. I already have enough flitting around in my brain without having extraneous input to handle. 

 The freedom to be myself is absolutely glorious.

Quantifiable facts make me happy. I am safe when I understand what's what.

  Each new fact about biology and chemistry shoots multi-colored fireworks from my toes to my brain... _BAM!_   _pop pop pop...simply lovely._ Mycroft and I had a bit of a go-around after I once described the color of my thoughts. He thought I had misspoken (misspelled?).

    Mycroft once admitted that he's never experienced the phenomenon of _synesthesia,_  his mind generating colors like mine does. That's not important. I know he understands. Observing the world lights me up like a Catherine wheel.

  Facts are refreshingly exact in comparison to people, most of whom I don't understand at all. Emotions are tricky at the best of times. I get so furious when people pretend they don't feel what they feel. Mummy used to be afraid that I was defective, but did she say so? No, she did not, therefore she lied. She preferred to say that I was just taking my time.

  A lie of omission is a lie. Is total silence also prevarication?

  Whatever. This is making my head hurt.

   ***************

   Back to geology and earth science:

  Personally, the most delightful way for me to mark time, and thus be aware of the encroaching new season, is to sit among the potato plants by the shed. I really like to watch plants grow in Mummy's garden. Flora marks time as well as clocks do, if you are flexible about specifics and account for margin of error. I like to observe plants from the day that a seed germinates to the inevitable cellular death and decomposition. Inasmuch, plants help me keep tabs on my bees.

   This spring, I've decided to conduct a comprehensive study on a specific hive in the garden. Bombus pascuorum, whom I secretly refer to as my "gingerbumbles" because of their orange-gold hair, are most beautiful in the sunshine. Mummy says they are called "carder bees", which personally, I think is a very dull name for such a lovely species. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sine qua non- exception
> 
> constructive criticism is appreciated - I am not sure about this chapter.


	11. Mr. Murray's Brother's Son's Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.
> 
> I'm trying to turn over a new leaf when it comes to writing. The process has been laborious as of late. I spend a lot of time reviewing each and every word and/or sentence for days before posting. I am not sure if this makes the stories better, or just overworked.
> 
> Anyhoo, I am going to throw some work out there without using my mental microscope. Hopefully, the stories don't suffer. Also, expect frequent re-writes as I am an insufferable perfectionist.
> 
> Ta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: 'What, you too? I though I was the only one.'" - C.S. Lewis

  My problem with words is a problem. 

    _Predicament. Pother. Vexation. Furor,_ and _tumult_  (my personal favorite).My mental glossary of words has stuffed up the available space in my brain. Words spill over into the well of my mouth. My mouth is completely full up. I press my lips together to keep them from from dribbling out. Big words,  _prodigious_...small words,  _microscopic._   So many, many words - too many words. I'm full up. I believe I will one day explode.

  Last night, I crammed one-hundred new words into the medial temporal lobe of my brain. The limbic system, _comprised_ of bits and bobs of tissue. If I dared to speak out loud, these bits and bobs would roll off my tongue in a landslide of ideas and thoughts. 

    _epithalamus                      thalamus_

_cingulate gyrus                       hypothalamus_

_hippocampus                  mammillary body                         amygdala_

 

What would Mummy do if I spoke? I'm not quite sure, honestly. She'd probably tip over like a teapot, and then cry and then cry and then cry... I don't like it when Mummy cries. Her eyes fade from the purest of greens into grey. Grey is not much of a colour. 

   I'm of the opinion that the thoughts in my head are - now and again - not good. A bit not good, at least. I'd be sad if I caused Mummy to cry.

   No-one has questioned my refusal to speak for ages and ages; a month, or more, maybe two. It's hard to keep track of these things. Which, I think, is why I have begun to question it myself. When I was little, the world was  _too much._  And people, with all of their talking! People  _never_ shut up. 

   The irony is that mostly, it's a waste of their time.

   Why do people never say what it is that they're actually thinking? Humans lie all all the time. Mostly, they lie to each other. It's worse when they lie to themselves - sad, somehow. Depressing. Mummy and Daddy lie all the time...mostly to themselves. The lies I observe in their eyes and behavior are more upsetting than the ones from their lips.

    They lie to themselves about Euros.

    They'd be pants at working in government.

   On the grounds that I deem prevarication as insufferably rude, I've made a vow never to lie. I refuse. At any rate, lying is a useless waste of time around Mycroft and Euros, and I choose not to  _squander_ my time on _feckless_ endeavours. 

    Considering my thoughts are not good, it's better to hold my words inside my mouth.

   I fancy the word feckless. It sounds more than a little bit naughty.

  **************

   Something unexpected happened today. Smack dab in the middle of his second buttered cheese scone, Lt. Murray makes an announcement. Bits of scone spray from his lips, he's that chuffed. A little lands up in Mycroft's half-drunk tea, and then I'm spitting crumbs from _my_ lips. Oily residue swirls in his cup. Tea is generally a messy affair in our house.

   Mycroft pushes away his tea in a tizzy, but Mummy pays him no mind. My brother tends to be finicky about such things as shared spittle.

   Lt. Murray turns his brown eyes onto Mum. "Mrs. Holmes! I am delira and excira to tell you! My nephew, he's in sum hanlin...err...has a problem." His face doesn't fit with his words, which is confusing. Lt. Murray is normally quite honest.

    Isn't a problem a... problem?

    "His wife, lovely creature that she is, has a wee issue with gambling." He winks. "Not that you heard that from me." He slurps the rest of his tea in one gulp, smacking his lips. "Lovely.

    Mummy sets her green eyes my teacher, expectant. He dabs at his wrinkly lips and chin whilst she waits. 

    Lt. Murray proceeds to  _wax poetic_ for far too long (as far as Mycroft is concerned) about the trials and tribulations of his nephew. An agonizingly long time passes before the leifteanant gets to the heart of the matter. Mycroft eats two more scones.

    Killian Murray, Jr., is losing his house. He, his wife Alice, and adopted step-son Victor Trevor, are coming to live with my teacher. Victor Trevor is exactly my age.

    Lt. Murray believes he's afforded me with a companion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.human-memory.net/brain_parts.html


End file.
